At some point during the future, a chemical warfare “oops” happened and everybody died. I’m surprised you didn’t know about it. This turned the world into a post-apocalyptic wasteland, full of dirt, caves and gargoyles. Fortunately, a small group of scientists in matching jumpsuits were able to create an antidote and sequester themselves in an underground science lab. From there they venture out into the dirt to see if anyone is left alive and if so, can they direct them to the nearest 7-Eleven™ (they’re always open) for a refreshing Slurpee™ because damn, it’s hot out there.

Those who do not come back are presumed ripped into Bacon Bits™ by the surface gargoyles and their food rations dispensed among the inwardly happy survivors. One such patrol yields a supermodel not yet turned into Californian gargoyle wrap. They take her back to the science hole and discover she’s pregnant. One theory as to who the father is. During the extremely truncated gestation period, she gets ready to pop in just a few hours. One doctor chick slices open the mom-to-be’s gut bucket (i.e., stomach), reaches in and pulls out a (you’re NOT gonna believe this) gargoyle. Before the reluctant mother can give it a name, like Rot Face Chew Boy or Dougy, the thing wiggles away and leaves mom ready for a dirt nap.

The newborn makes its way into the air vent and grows at an accelerated rate. The rest of the scientists are pretty much screwed — they can’t stay in, yet they can’t go out. A quandary for sure. Now in his teens, the gargoyle puts his raging hormones to use and gets busy with one of the science chicks, who gives birth a half-hour later as well. What the heck is it with gargoyles and their whole “I don’t use condoms, man” ethic?

The gargoyle resembles an alligator if the alligator was turned inside out and stood on two legs and had rubber-looking feet and claws. It doesn’t need to be said, but those gargoyles are king butt unattractive. With only two scientists (a dude and a chick) remaining, the race is one to get out of the doom tunnel before the gargoyle wants to knock boots again. Smellin’ a party, all the top-side gargoyles come a’runnin’.

Were it not for a strategically placed bomb (no underground laboratory with limited escape routes should be without one), it could’ve been an all-out slumber party for horny beasts. (If even one of the monsters was from, say, the Castro District in San Francisco, the last remaining science dude would be looking for the nearest phaser to swallow. Okay, that didn’t come out right.) And were it not for the Alien (1979) rip-off scenes and overly long plot padding, I might’ve given the generic The Terror Within (1989), half a zero instead of a full zero.

Even though it’s grammatically wonky Christmas at Draculas (2015) is in contention for best horror movie title of the decade.

Just think what the holiest time of the year (besides Halloween and National Beer Day) would be like with the Prince of Darkness. I mean, what would you give the guy who has everything? A chew toy? A cherry Slurpee™? A Groupon™ for tooth polish?

So here’s the plot, which has me drooling all over my National Beer Day shirt:

“Told through the eyes of The Invisible Man, Count Dracula has hit rock bottom, so with the help of his noble companion Igor, he decides to throw the greatest Christmas party of all time.”

“He invites The Wolfman, Medusa, The Wicked Witch, Frankenstein, Dr. Jekyll and The Invisible Man. But when two killers arrive at the door, things slowly begin to spiral out of control. And Dracula’s faith lies in the hands of one creature…Death himself!”

I only have one question – How do I score an invite to this party? If anyone can hook a brother up, I’d appreciate it.